The air had changed.
He felt it before he saw it, heard it before he stepped beyond the forgotten shrine. The rhythm of the underground, the soft echo of droplets, the steady thrum of hidden water, all of it warped — slowed. Not silenced. Warped. Like the breath of the world itself had caught in its throat.
He stood still for a long moment.
The reflection in the mirror no longer glowed. The shard hung there, quiet, a memory that refused to fade. The word Tokyo remained etched somewhere behind his ribs, foreign and familiar, but it offered nothing more. No guidance. No answers. Just weight. Like the start of a story he was too late to remember.
The voice. The dragon. The glyphs. Speech.
He could speak now. But he hadn't said much. Only questions. And none of them had been answered.
He stepped away from the mirror, one hand brushing the roots that cradled it. They were dry. Brittle. As if they'd done their part and wanted nothing more. The boy — still without a name — moved on.
The passage opened downward.
He should have turned back. He should have returned to Koji. To the girl with the scarred wrist who'd stitched his torn sleeve without a word. To the dorm halls and their half-shelters. But something below called louder.
Not a voice. Not the system. Just pull.
His body obeyed.
The descent took time. There were no stairs, just natural slope — slick stone, patches of moss, places where the wall narrowed and forced him to crawl. The silence grew thicker. Not oppressive. Intentional. As if something had warned the world of his presence and the world had chosen to listen.
His footsteps faded.
Then, eventually, the ground evened out. Opened. Another chamber. This one was not shaped by nature. It was made. Cut. Hewn.
Doors.
Four of them. Carved from different materials. One stone, covered in teeth-shaped runes. One iron, rusted but humming faintly. One bone, wrapped in crimson cords. And one that was not a door at all — just darkness, framed like a doorway, leading into pitch.
Above them, symbols. Glyphs again.
He didn't know their meaning. But the system did.
[ SYSTEM NOTICE ]
[ CHOICE REQUIRED — TRIAL OF ORIGINS ]
[ Select One: ]
[ ➤ PATH OF MEMORY ] [ ➤ PATH OF FLESH ] [ ➤ PATH OF BLOOD ] [ ➤ PATH OF VOID ]
He froze.
There were no instructions. No hints. The system didn't guide with warmth or intention. It simply was. Mechanical. Empty. Like a machine long-forgotten still grinding its gears because no one had told it to stop.
He walked to the bone door first. The crimson cords pulsed faintly.
Path of Blood.
The iron door, humming, thrumming like it held a heart.
Path of Flesh.
The stone door — old, jagged, cruel in its simplicity.
Path of Memory.
And the black doorway — yawning, silent, colder than the others.
Path of Void.
Which was he meant for?
He stepped back. Let his breath come slow. Thought of the mirror. The shard. The word.
Tokyo.
A place.
A truth?
He turned again to the stone door.
[ SELECTED: PATH OF MEMORY ]
The runes shimmered. A soft tremor ran through the floor. Dust fell from above. And slowly, with sound like cracking teeth, the door unlatched.
He stepped through.
No fanfare. No lights. Just more darkness. But not blind — the stone walls glowed faintly, just enough to trace the shape of the hallway. He followed.
The air here tasted different. Stale, but not rotten. Preserved. Like a tomb.
Then — voices.
Faint. Whispering. Not to him. Not even present. Echoes.
"Don't forget your bag, Katsu—"
"I said I'll be back before seven. Geez, chill."
A laugh. Young. Sharp.
He stopped. His hands trembled. That voice—
He didn't know it. But his body did.
More whispers.
Rain against glass.
A train horn.
Then silence.
His knees weakened.
[ SYSTEM NOTE: TEMPORARY MEMORY TRACE ACCESSED ]
[ TIMEFRAME: REDACTED ]
[ STABILITY: LOW ]
"Who was I..." he whispered.
And something, in that moment, heard him.
A door appeared — not real, but visible. Shimmering like a mirage. On the wall beside him.
He touched it.
Sound returned.
A room.
Walls of white. A flickering screen. A calendar.
November 3rd.
A schoolbag. A name tag. A photograph on a desk — him. With others. Laughter captured. A skyline behind them.
He staggered back. The image dissolved.
Back in the tunnel. Alone.
But no longer the same.
He knew one thing now. Not much. Not enough. But something.
He had lived before.
And he had died.
And this place — this system — this world — was not his first.
[ SYSTEM LEVEL UPDATED ]
[ You have taken the first step. ]
[ ??? has begun to notice you. ]
The glyphs above him flickered.
The door behind him closed.
Trial complete.
He sank to the floor, breathing hard, chest tight.
He didn't cry. Not out of strength. Just... emptiness. Like the tears had been spent in another life.
He whispered again. Testing the word.
"Katsuro."
It echoed. Not loudly. Not far. But real.
His name.
Or something close to it.
He stood.
The path ahead was clearer now. Not easier. Not kinder. But chosen.